Family Right Or Wrong
by Zentauria
Summary: Healing a rift I never even knew to exist. History repeating. When I wished to find out more about my great-great-grandfather, I didn't expect it to crash down on me like the bell that killed him. Or that the way would lead to a former schoolmate with exceptional musical talent and PTSD from an experience that sounds like a dream.
1. Marigolds And a White Guitar

**So, this thing has been sitting on my laptop since forever because my Grammar Goddess didn't have time for beta-ing. And she still doesn't, but I couldn't hold back any longer. (Shame on me.)**

 **So you get the non-grammar-checked version for now. My first venture into the world of Coco, and probably not the last one!**

 **I'm not Mexican, so I hope I won't offend anyone. Unfortunately, there's only so much cultural stuff the local library can teach me, and I'm afraid I don't have the resources to hop a plane and fly halfway around the globe to take a look firsthand.**

 **Shoot me a message if you find something undesirable!**

* * *

 _Marigolds And a White Guitar_

* * *

I hate people who run through train aisles. They're loud and bother me when I'm engrossed in my books.

"Good door, good door! Noooo, bad door!"

I'm a girl running through train aisles, book in hand. I didn't even have time to put the shoulder strap of my satchel where it belongs, and now it's slapping freely against my thigh. That's what you get for not paying attention to where you are!

I barely manage to jump onto the platform of Santa Cecilia before the door closes. With a sigh of relief, I watch the train leave without me, then take the time to sort my stuff. Hook my novel into the strap of my satchel, slip it over my shoulder, drop the satchel, dig for bookmark.

"¡Dios mío! I'm gonna miss my station for real someday!"

A group of white tourists walks up to me. I can tell they're tourists because the whites around these parts know better than to get themselves burned to a crisp by the winter sun.

I recognize them - they rode the same train. A family, I guess. Two adults, a teen and a preteen. The teen apparently took Spanish lessons, because her asking for directions doesn't sound too horrible. She wants to know how to get to Mariachi Plaza, but I don't think she actually understands my reply. Briefly, I toy with the idea of switching to English, but chances are it won't help the conversation much. My English skills are less than stellar.

I end up talking slower and slower, and eventually get to a point where I offer to guide the four. They seem very relieved by the idea.

It's not far to Mariachi Plaza, and I love wandering through Santa Cecilia. In fact, if I had to name my favorite place for a walk, it would be right this one. Santa Cecilia is lively, dusty and colorful. The cobbled streets are packed with vendors and musicians instead of cars, and with townspeople exchanging the latest gossip in the sun. It invites to sing and dance along with the Mariachi musicians, to hum and skip and flow through the songs in passing. The tourist family oohs and aahs at every corner, and I can't help grinning at their excitement. One always gains a new appreciation for everyday things when seeing the wonder on other's faces.

* * *

Before I know it, we've reached our destination. Mariachi Plaza is bursting with people, as usual. Everyone comes here for the music, Santa Cecilia is famous for it after all. And for being the birthplace of Ernesto de la Cruz, of course.

I quickly lose my tourist following in the crowd, and to be perfectly honest, I don't really mind. I came here with a purpose, and I should get down to it.

I'm about to leave for a quieter place when an awfully high-pitched grito rings all across the plaza. More out of reflex than anything, I turn my head, searching for the source.

The sight greeting me catapults itself right up my Top Three List of Daily Weirdness – a gangly boy balancing precariously on the parapet of the gazebo, carrying a white guitar easily his own size. Wow, haven't seen him in a while. Roughly one and a half years now. What's his name again? Diego? No, something with an M.

Ay, cielos... I hope he doesn't insist on planting his nose firmly into the concrete below him.

The kid starts strumming the chords of _Cuento de Hadas_ , and I tear my eyes away. _Cuento de Hadas_ is a somewhat obscure Ernesto de la Cruz song, a cutesy ditty about a dorky musician trying to upstage his wife in telling stories to their child. It's one of my favorites, and I'm not about to listen to a preteen fanboy butchering it. For what else would he be, showing off a replica of Ernesto de la Cruz's famous guitar like this?

Anyway, I better be going. I order my legs to move and walk down one of the many alleys leading away from Mariachi Plaza. There's a flower stall I need to visit.

As soon as I'm within earshot, I call, "¡Hola, señor Martinez!" and the vendor looks up from sorting his flowers.

He smiles warmly. "¡Hola, muchacha! Coming alone this year?"

"Sí. My hermanito fell sick, so I'm afraid I'm on my own today."

"Aren't you grown up! Tell Danilo I wish him a quick recovery!"

"I will!" I pick a bouquet of marigolds from a water-filled bucket and add two yellow chrysanthemums. I know I'm seriously late for Día de los Muertos, but since the main branch of my family lives in a different village, we hold our vigil at the local cemetery. Plus, it's kind of a secret that we have a relative originating from here.

I pay for the flowers and skip off, heading straight towards the Pantéon Santa Cecilia. There are still some stray petals of marigold lying around, left over from the celebrations nine days ago, but no living soul in sight.

Glad to remain undisturbed, I weave between the graves until I reach the biggest of them all – Ernesto de la Cruz's mausoleum. The shadow it casts is unexpectedly cool, causing goosebumps to run up my arms. I should have known better. I should have listened to mamá and dressed in something warmer than bib shorts and a T-shirt... Better bring a jacket next time.

I place the bouquet on a ledge protruding from the right side of the tomb's entrance and step back, catching myself staring at the mausoleum's top. It's modeled after a church steeple, and waaaay high. Sometimes, I wonder if it was build with the intention of making the onlooker feel like they can't measure up.

Because I certainly feel that way. There's a million things I want to say, but none of them seems worthy of being spoken. It's a silly notion, I know. I'm fourteen years old, I shouldn't be intimidated by such things. But I can't shake the uneasiness. Who am I, compared to Ernesto de la Cruz? A mere dancer-in-training who can't even _hold_ a guitar without getting cramps.

I shake my head and force a smile. Fake it till you make it. What's there to be scared of? We're family! Of course I can talk to him!

I draw a deep breath. "I wish you could give me a sign. Some proof that you know I'm existing. That you have a great-great-granddaughter." Wow. Best opening line ever. Not awkward at all! "I don't believe my mamá Esperanza would ever tell you, even in the Land of the Dead. Even if her dream came true, and she could dance for you again. Getting pregnant without marriage, even if the child is from a star... Her family really didn't like it." I stuff my hands into my pockets, the rough feeling of the jeans a slight comfort. "Not that I condemn her for it. I'm glad to be me! And, you know, since last year, I've started wondering if I have primas or primos somewhere in Mexico whom I don't know about. Other dancers, maybe. Or musicians. By the way, I'm still working hard on my dancing! It would be so great if I could become like mamá Esperanza and dance for a famous musician! Not planning to get knocked up by one, though..." I laugh uneasily, not entirely sure what drove me to crack that sort of joke. It's not even funny. "Of course, I'm not telling you this for the first time. But I honestly don't know what else to say. Not even papá Fabio knew anything about you outside your fame, and he was your _son_. But you were a musician, so..."

I reach into the front pocket of my satchel and pull out a harmonica. If there's one thing I understand about my strange, unclaimed great-great-grandfather, it's his passion for music. After all, the fact that I couldn't play a guitar to save my life never kept me from following the same passion.

Not that I'm particularly talented. I play the notes as they come to me, without rhyme or reason. Plus, I've dropped the harmonica into a sandbox once, and its sound's been somewhat grainy ever since. I don't mind. This is about conveying my feelings, not holding a concert. I don't _need_ a fancy melody.

I don't regret being the great-great-granddaughter of Ernesto de la Cruz. I don't mind keeping my lineage a secret, either, though I suppose it wouldn't have been as much of a problem if my great-great-great-grandparents wouldn't have come from overseas. I sure wish to learn more about that missing part of my familia... What my papá Ernesto was like as a person, when he was off the stage. What he was like when no camera was directed at him for once.

I'm sure he was wonderful.

I feel a lot less awkward when I store my harmonica back in my satchel. Music really is a great way to vent my confusion!

Putting on a grin, I make my way over to the nearest window, finally ready to face my papá Ernesto himself.

"Good thing no one is around to hear me. The people of Santa Cecilia do love themselves some good music! They'd probably be scandalized if they had to listen to my shrieking like a mangy stray cat in a blend–"

I can't finish my sentence. Something isn't right... The inside of the mausoleum is too dark to see clearly, and I automatically lean in to get a closer look. "Whoa!"

I jerk backwards, panting with shock. The window gives in! I poke at it warily, and yes, the bolt locking the window has been snapped clean off. And not only that – the guitar is gone! Somebody broke into the tomb and stole it!

My thoughts fly back to the parapet-boy in Mariachi Plaza, and the guitar he played. Come to think about it, I've never heard a replica sounding that much like the original. The people in this area can't afford such high quality copies, much less a child.

Anger flares. Before I know it, I'm racing back the way I came, hugging my satchel to keep it from swinging. All the music around me is suddenly meaningless, drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears.

The run to Mariachi Plaza is two minutes at max, but when I reach it, I finally find back to reality. Panting and all the mad energy burned away, I start wondering if I was jumping to conclusions. The boy is still here, and he found a bench to perform on. Much steadier than a parapet.

Which means I finally get a better look at him. He's basking in the attention of the crowd, his broad smile all sunshine and rainbows. And with a colossal start of surprise, I recognize that face!

 _Miguel Rivera._

The kid's the anti-music clan's angelito! Two years younger than me, a shoe shining pro with a distinctly allergic reaction to shoes. Cousin to Rosa Rivera, one year younger. I suppose he's in his final year of elementary now?

I know him as something of an outsider. The Rivera family acquired a certain renown for refusing music lessons and singing the national anthem, though Rosa was actually pretty popular. Back when she enrolled, I resolved to steer clear of her. Her older brother, Abel, was a classmate of my own brother, and Danilo warned me about the clan's hate for music. Being a dancer, I knew we wouldn't get along. But as if it wasn't peculiar enough for the Riveras to be Santa Cecilian music-haters, Miguel stuck out as extra peculiar. You wouldn't believe he could possibly be related to Rosa and Abel.

Miguel actually _suffered_.

I know, because one morning, I spotted him hammering away at fence posts with a stick. It confused me for about two seconds, then I realized he was improvising a melody. It was unrefined, but catchy nonetheless. At some point, he snapped the stick atop his knee and continued to use the halves as claves. He managed to make the noise of splintering wood sound harmonious, and I caught myself improvising some dance moves on my own.

However, it's a stretch to call it the start of a friendship – for one because the very moment he noticed that someone stood next to him, he dissolved into stuttering. (He actually sounded vaguely unstable back then.) Another reason would be that I never felt like we moved past the 'casual acquaintance' stage. It's kind of telling that I forgot his name. We'd have lunch together every now and again, and sing and obsess over Ernesto de la Cruz in nerdy harmony. I believe it made Miguel really happy, but he only dropped by every other month. He was deathly afraid of his cousin finding out.

Yup, seeing him again dug up some fond memories of the clumsy little dreamer who couldn't seem to get his own two feet sorted, ginormous as they are. I can't imagine Miguel being dumb enough to steal an easily recognized guitar, from a grave no less, and proceed to play it in the plaza. He'd be caught within five seconds.

In fact, I can't imagine him stealing _anything_. And what's he doing playing in the plaza, anyway? I mean, seriously! With that background, it's no wonder he wasn't the first one to spring to mind. He sorta dropped right off the radar.

Puzzling... The direct approach it is, then.

I make a dash for the closest person and wave. "¡Disculpe, señora! Somebody broke into Ernesto de la Cruz's tomb and took the guitar!"

My heart sinks. It's not shock that I see spreading on her face – it's discomfort. "Ay, muchacha. You're not from Santa Cecilia, are you?"

"I'm from Mazavillo, but... What does that have to do with anything?"

"We don't talk about that fraud anymore."

"Fraud?!" I can't believe my ears. Did she just call him a fraud? My papá Ernesto?!

"Sí. That man stole both the guitar and the songs from Héctor Rivera."

"What?! That's not true!" Alright, that does it! Apparently, I was wrong about my ex-schoolmate!

Disappointment quickly turns into rage. If anger took the form of laser beams, the kid on the bench would have a lot of burn holes right now! "Is that why nobody cares which guitar he is holding?! Because you believe it's _his?!_ "

I don't even wait for an answer. I activate my elbows and dive into the crowd, ranting under my breath: "Stupid Miguel, stupid Rivera! Starting rumors like this about my papá Ernesto, just so he can get his grabby fanboy paws on his guitar! Who does that little shoemaking upstart think he is, anyway?!"

I don't care that I'm about to ruin the party for a lot of people. I don't care that I'm about to violate great music, that the shoemaking upstart in question actually knows his notes. Nobody insults my family and gets away with it! Not even Miguel!

"RIVERA!"

A professional would have kept playing, but Miguel is no professional. His fingers halt in mid-pick, and more gazes turn my way than I care to count. I press forward, I'll get to that bench no matter what! And soon enough, the kid spots me, too. His brows furrow with concentration, and after a second or two, he blinks, a gleam of recognition changing his suspicion to bafflement.

"Tavi? What...?"

"That's Octavia to you, little thief! I can't believe you'd go this far!"

He knows very well what I'm talking about, the bad conscience is written all over his face. Even the guitar betrays him with a terrible discord as his grip around its fretboard tightens. Finally, he pulls himself together, eyes hard and posture stiff. He lays the guitar down on the bench and hops off.

"I'm not a thief! The guitar belonged to my great-great-grandfather!"

"Sure," I scoff and cross my arms. Taking this toothpick serious is hard enough as it is. He barely reaches my chin, and I'll eat my ponytail if there's any real strength in those twigs he calls his arms. His blatant lies are almost cute. Almost. "Care to explain where that guitar comes from, then? And why the window of Ernesto de la Cruz's tomb is broken?"

Miguel winces, and that's all the answer I need. "Thought so. How about we put this back to where it belongs, hmm?"

I try to sidestep the kid and get the guitar, but he wouldn't have it. He definitely took some levels in gracefulness during those past years, and he's back to barring my way in a flash. "Stop it!"

It's only a minor inconvenience, really. I've been training to become a dancer ever since I started walking. I could outmaneuver him at any time I choose, yet I can't hope to get anywhere so long as he doesn't give up his claim on the guitar. Whatever he did to keep it, it stuck. And the people around me are on his side. (I figure that those who aren't would boycott him, anyway.)

"¡Niños, please!" Speaking of which... Looks like someone got over his surprise and is trying to step in. I don't bother replying, but it's becoming increasingly obvious that I need a different approach. So I take a deep breath and at least _try_ not to think about how Miguel broke into my great-great-grandfather's tomb. And took his guitar. And claimed that both the songs and the guitar were stolen from this Héctor character.

Gah! _No way in the world_ am I going to calm down!

"Don't make this harder than it is, Miguel! We both know you're a grave robber, and you don't even have the decency to be ashamed! Oh no, you're even justifying it! By claiming that Ernesto de la Cruz stole the guitar from _your_ family, no less! You're not worthy of it, even if you didn't take it from a tomb, you liar!"

"It's not a lie! And I'm plenty more worthy of this guitar than de la Cruz ever was!"

"Tsk, why? Because you think you make good music? Sorry to break it to you, but those people only love you because you're cute and play what they like. You're still a thief who copies famous songs. And your grito sounds like someone stepped on a puppy!"

"At least I didn't _murder_ anyone!" Miguel roars, and I know I pushed him over the edge.

Which is not a good thing. He's literally getting in my face, teeth bared, and I catch myself flinching away. It only adds anger at myself to the anger at him. Then his words sink in, and I completely lose myself to my temper.

"How _dare_ you?! How dare you accuse Ernesto de la Cruz of murder?!" Now it's his turn to flinch, but I'm not going to let him off that easily! I'll make him see how furious I am! First he's robbing my great-great-grandfather's grave, then he's calling him a fraud, and now a _murderer?!_ Isn't he satisfied with trampling all over his body?! Does he need to trample all over his legacy, too?!

I grab his collar and lift him to my eye level, but I don't get to actually start yelling. Something really weird happens before I can open my mouth.

Miguel _wails_.

The sheer terror bursting from his small frame snaps me out of my rage. I drop Miguel – _the kid, you idiot!_ – and stumble backwards to give him some space. He lands on his knees, his breathing ragged, but whatever it was that came over him just now, whatever I caused to happen in a surge of emotion... It seems to be gone. I _hope_ it's gone.

I take an uncertain step. The situation has taken a turn for the seriously awkward, and I have absolutely no idea how to continue from here. "Miguel?"

"I'm fine!" he snarls and wastes no more time to climb to his feet. If looks could kill, I would have died ten times over.

Can I blame him? Yes, I'm pretty sure I can. To a certain degree. But it doesn't change the fact that I overreacted.

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you like that."

"Ahórrate la saliva. What else could you have meant to do?"

He's got me there. _Of course_ I meant to intimidate him at the time, even if I want to loathe the fact out of existence _now_.

"Thought so," Miguel huffs, echoing my earlier comment.

I suffer the burn quietly.

He's halfway into saying something else when the sound of barking distracts us both, and a man in a leather apron pops up from the left. He's accompanied by what looks like a churro but is actually a Xolo dog.

"Miguel!" the man calls out, and the boy brightens up like the sun.

"¡Papá!"

He runs off to jump into his father's embrace, leaving me behind like a broken umbrella. Me, and my great-great-grandfather's guitar. I consider picking it up, but discard the idea as soon as it came. It's no use, really, so I stick to watching the two Riveras.

The papá unlatches his son from his waist and sighs. "Can you go one day without getting into trouble, Miguel? Only one day?"

"It's not my fault!" the boy protests. "She came out of nowhere and demanded I give up papá Héctor's guitar!"

Should I say something? And if yes, what exactly?

I don't get to think about it too much. The dog bursts into barks again and comes speeding towards me, tongue lolling and tail wagging. Okay, what's happening here?

Miguel, for his part, isn't too pleased by this turn of events. "Dante! Come back here, Dante! Stay away from her!"

Dante? Go figure. Dante is the name of a horse in an Ernesto de la Cruz movie. Of course, a fan like Miguel would name his pet after the sidekick of his idol.

Which brings me back to the problem at hand. The Miguel I knew was all starry-eyed about my great-great-grandfather. I can't imagine him doing anything remotely damaging to his reputation. To alienate a fan like Miguel, something deadly serious would have to happen.

Something deadly serious... like a murder?

It's a lie, right? It must be a lie. My papá... Ernesto de la Cruz... He didn't... He wouldn't! "It's a lie!" I yell at the dog. Kind of. Tears sting the corners of my eyes, but Dante barks happily and jumps, trying to spread his slobber all over my face. I go down on one knee and pet him. I like dogs, and I can use someone who cheers me up.

While I'm busy entertaining Dante, I reserve half an ear for Miguel's interrogation.

"Who's the girl?"

"That drama queen?" Hey! "That's Octavia Aguayo. I know her from school, but she finished about one and a half years ago."

"And you two fought, because?"

"Well, I dunno! Because she's loco and refuses to accept that de la Cruz is no real musician! She called me a liar, and a thief!"

"Ay, mijo... That's exactly why we told you to wait a little before playing in the plaza. The news take a while to spread to the surrounding villages."

A sigh on Miguel's part. "Yes, papá..." He doesn't sound mad anymore. I guess he's starting to understand my viewpoint. I wonder...

I get up and make my way towards the Riveras. Dante seems a little disappointed, but he's quick to follow. It's super awkward to stand in front of Miguel's father, I can't even look him in the eye. But I gotta do this! "Hola... I'm really sorry for attacking your son. He's right, it's my fault, and I promise it won't happen again. I wasn't myself at that moment." Way to ruin the first impression... "I'll make it up to you if I can, it's just..." I take a deep breath. Better get this over with. "Can you prove it? That Ernesto de la Cruz... did all those things?"

"Not everything," Miguel replies. I jump at the excuse to turn away from his father and face him instead. Better the devil you know, and Miguel apparently calmed down. "We can prove that the guitar and the songs were stolen. What do you care, anyway?"

I wrinkle my nose at the question. He just _had_ to ask, right? How am I supposed to get the sincerity of my apology across if I can't even explain myself? "It's complicated. I'm sorry, but mi familia is going to kill me if I told you."

"¿Tu familia?" He tilts his head, a look in his eyes which is decidedly unsettling. Like he knows something. But it can't be! _What in the world_ would give it away?!

However, even more unsettling is the smile that spreads on Miguel's lips shortly after. Has he always been this mischievous? "You know what? You should come with us! Do you still play the harmonica?"

That... was the weirdest change of subject I ever experienced. "¿Sí?"

Miguel grins even broader and dashes off to get his guitar, leaving me alone with his father, who's yet to say a word. At least Dante is still here...

"Um... I'm really–"

"Sorry?" he cuts in with a gentle smile and places a hand on my shoulder. "I get it, muchacha. And if Miguel is willing to give you a second chance, so am I." He raises his head to stare after his son. "I get the feeling he knows something that I don't."

I breathe a sigh of relief, and the knot in my stomach loosens a little. "Isn't that true..." I'll be darned if that kid _doesn't_ have some sort of ulterior motive. That change from snark to happy-go-lucky seems altogether too easy. But I suppose my switching from screaming bloody murder to falling over myself to apologize would look weird, too, from the outside. And Miguel's twelve, so... I should just use the chance instead of overthinking it to death. I'll find out soon enough what Miguel's up to. "Muchas gracias, señor."

"Please call me Enrique," Miguel's father says and offers me his hand. I gladly shake it.

"Octavia. But you already knew that." I attempt a chuckle, but it comes out as something like a cough. "I prefer Tavia, though."

Dante barks, and Miguel is back, holding the bulky guitar upside-down, in a way that makes its body touch his back. It looks tricky.

"Don't you have a guitar case?"

"Nope. I kinda used to have a guitar with a strap, but I don't want to change papá Héctor's guitar like that."

I... am _not_ going to point out that the guitar actually had a strap attached when my great-great-grandfather played it. Or that sooner or later, Miguel will need one to take the strain off his wispy little toothpick-arms. "What happened to the other guitar?"

Miguel's eyes flicker to the side. "I may have fallen into a pool?"

Wait, what?

"It's a long story!" he adds hastily. "¡Vámonos!"

He forges ahead, Dante running criss-cross around his legs. His father follows, apparently amused by Miguel's antics, and I'm left with no choice but to shrug off the weirdness and plod after them. After we put some distance between ourselves and Mariachi Plaza, Miguel hangs back until he's walking next to me.

I didn't pay any heed to it until now, but the collar of his T-shirt is ripped. His cry rings in my ears all over again. I want to kick myself! "You're doing okay?"

"Huh?" I guess I'm staring a little too obviously, because Miguel promptly feels around his collar. He finds the tear eventually. "Don't worry about it. I'm fine, really." He curls his lips thoughtfully. "So, about what you said earlier... The family thing. You're related to Ernesto de la Cruz, ¿verdad?"

My heart skips a beat. Part of me knew he caught on somehow, but having it confirmed is another matter altogether. "How did you figure it out?"

Something about Miguel's expression makes my stomach do backflips. The best description I can find is awe - the bad, fearful kind, even though he doesn't seem particularly scared. He lifts a hand and points at his face. "You have his eyes. When you got angry, I thought..." He trails off and turns forward again. "Never mind. If I start this now, we'll be here til sunrise. If you don't go back to trying to strangle me again, that is."

Part of me wants to tell him that he can't say something like that and then simply _leave it there._ The other part votes it down from interrupting, for fear Miguel will stop talking altogether.

"It could have been coincidence, of course, but then Dante went crazy about you." The dog barks at the mention of his name, and Miguel gladly scratches him between the ears. "Good thing I have you, boy! You're right, I _totally_ need to stop walking out on people."

In a weird way, that statement makes me want to laugh. "I wouldn't have blamed you for that."

"Uh..." Miguel retracts his hand and huffs out an uneasy laugh. "Yeah, not for that."

Hey! Does he think I'm lying?

I place a hand on my hip. "Now what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing?"

"You're a god-awful liar, Miguel."

He rolls his eyes and makes some oddly stilted gesture. Had it not been for the guitar, Miguel probably would have crossed his arms. "Glad to have that out of the way," he mutters. I don't think I was supposed to hear that, but... Are we still biting back? I can't really tell. He might be referring to me accusing him of lying about the guitar, but it sounds like a more general statement. Like he gets that a lot and it annoys the heck out of him. "Anyway, I meant that we would have split without clearing things up. And we'd still be mad at each other."

"Now that you mention it... That's actually very true." A broad smile sneaks up my face. I turn it at the dog still walking between us and pet him. "Thanks, Dante!"

Dante barks happily, which I count as finishing this little 'exchange' and steer my attention back to Miguel. "So you're basically telling me you figured out my lineage from comparing my eyes to pictures of my great-great-grandfather's eyes, and from the fact that your dog likes me."

"Aaaaand because I know a thing or two about overprotective family members. You should see my abuelita!" Miguel snickers. "She wields a devastating chancla if you so much as squint at one of us sideways!"

"Yikes!" The chancla is a nasty tool indeed. I still can't say I buy it, but I let the matter slide. For now I'm confronted with a completely different, more urgent problem: Overprotective family members. What if Miguel's abuelita sees the tear in his shirt and decides...?

I refuse to finish that thought. I stop and jerk a thump over my shoulder. "You know, I think I should get back to the station..."

"Come on! I'm not going to tell on you!" Miguel grabs my wrist and I allow him to drag me along. I guess I can run away later... "Besides, you need to distract abuelita from stacking food on my plate!"

"What the...? ¡Oye, amigo! That wasn't the deal, you flat-footed drumstick! No wonder you look like this!"

"Hey, drumsticks are great! Not as great as guitars, of course, but great!"

"Then how about you eat properly and be a guitar? Do guitars look like twigs?"

"I'd rather be a healthy twig than a guitar with a stomachache."

Can't argue with that logic. I guess? I think I just got lost in comparisons. But be as it may, the bottom line is that Miguel is not going to change his eating habits any time soon. I send a look at Enrique for help, but Miguel's padre seems to be very busy not disturbing our (more or less) teenage reacquainting session with parental twaddling. Oh well... I have enough to chew over without worrying about Miguel's stickman figure.

"Speaking of guitars..." the stickman in question rips me out of my musings. He lets go of my wrist and looks up at me with something that could pass for agitation. "Does my grito really sound like someone stepped on a puppy?"

Cielos... This is going to be a long day. And I have no one to blame but myself.


	2. Shoe Perils

**Yup, still a Grammar Goddess-free environment. But at least I know what's up with her now.**

 **And I'm posting early because I finally want to answer the guest reviews!**

 **Guitarist Girl: A de la Cruz-redemption story would definitely be interesting to write. I don't want to say too much here, because spoilers, but I do have my plans with these characters. It may or may not be what you're hoping for (I'm seriously not sure what you're hoping for exactly), but I'm giving it my all to make it a fun ride either way! ^-^**

 **ArtofthePlate: Octavia doesn't notice the 'Forget You' sign because there's no sign to notice yet. It's been only nine days so far, and I figure it would take at least a month to get the whole population of Santa Cecilia on board with the Héctor-was-the-real-musician idea. The sign will be hung up for sure, but all in its due time. Remember, the time skip spans** _ **a whole year**_ **.  
As for how much the family knows about Miguel's detour... Well, that's not quite the focus yet, because there's friendshipping to be done. But I do intend to adress that eventually!**

 **To the other two guests, I'm afraid I can't say much more than thank you. I'll keep writing!**

* * *

 _Shoe Perils_

* * *

After explaining that no, I didn't mean the things I said, that Miguel's grito sounds perfectly fine and that playing popular songs is a perfectly legit way to start out, I discover that the kid's a little perfeccionista. He actually concedes the points I made. I suppose filtering helpful info from a rage fit is a great ability to have, and I admire him for that. But all too often, ambition leads to anxiety, and Miguel's questioning something as basic as his grito rings several alarm bells. I can't help asking how many times he's performed before.

"Four. Well, three and a half."

"Sorry..." I mumble for what feels like the millionth time and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Anyway, how's the stage fright?"

"Awful," Miguel says, but there's laughter in his voice. "I was scared stiff the first time I stood in front of a crowd. But it's getting better."

"Nothing like a grito to get rid of the anxiety, isn't that right?" I grin, somewhat jealous. Dancers rarely get to scream, but dang it! Relaxation at its finest!

Miguel promptly agrees, "Sure is!" and waves his free hand, eyes twinkling with excitement. "What about you? I bet you've performed before!"

"¡Ya lo creo! Since I was seven, in fact. There's no faster way to melt people's hearts than letting a child perform. Which you're probably aware of." I scratch my head. Part of me is surprised that he asks, the other part is surprised that I'm surprised. "My family is deeply involved with pretty much every festival in this area. I actually performed in Santa Cecilia a couple times. Even more so now that I finished school!"

Miguel turns away, suddenly striking a rather bitter tone: "Not that I would know." He doesn't offer any explanation, but putting two and two together really isn't hard.

"Music is everywhere, isn't it? How did your family even _survive?_ "

"By locking everyone into a workshop."

"¡Híjole! I'd crack!"

Dante whines. Miguel's lips stretch into a thin line. There's something he doesn't say, and I get the distinct impression it's a bleak _I did_.

I can't blame him. Just thinking about the scale of reclusion the Riveras must have been living in makes me queasy. Only skirting festivals? No background music to take the strain off work, not even humming? No radio, no watching the news? No singing in the shower? Did they ever attend _church?!_

Before I can make up my mind about asking such weird questions to a person I've been trying to beat up only a few minutes ago, Miguel pulls himself together and maneuvers his guitar around. He starts picking at the strings, coaxing a gentle but gloomy melody from them. I never heard it before, I'm certain.

"What song is that?"

It takes a moment for Miguel to react. The way his head tilts when he looks up... so slow and deliberate... He's still the dreamy kid I once knew. Suddenly, I feel bad for interrupting him, but then Miguel blinks the far-off look away. It's instantly replaced by question marks tinged with indignation.

"It's not a song. I just made it up."

"You just...?!" I splutter. "You mean... _just now?!_ "

"Got a problem with that?"

"No." I shake my head, thoroughly amazed. Dante barks and wags his tail, as if trying to underline his master's epic-scale awesomeness. Not that it needs any underlining. "Honestly, it's boggling my mind. When I ad-lib a melody on my harmonica, you definitely hear it. I'm utterly hopeless when it comes to composing, even though I basically grew up in a music box. And then _you_ come round the corner and pull _this!_ How long has it been since your family stopped with the no-music nonsense?"

Miguel shrugs. "Last Día de los Muertos."

I can only shake my head again. I really want his talent, but this isn't the time to be jealous. And while I would like being able to compose great music off the top of my head, I'm certainly not interested in having Miguel's _history_. He complained about it to me before, and I imagine he complained to a bunch of other people, too. The story about the musician who left and never came back... Wait!

"¡Por Dios!" I snap my fingers. How could I not have realized? "Your great-great-grandfather! The musician who left! He's this Héctor person you mentioned, right?"

"You remember?" He seems genuinely surprised, and this time around, it's me who shrugs.

"Well, yeah. I mean, it's been a while, but your family history is... um... unique enough to be remembered."

"Unique? Seriously?" Miguel sighs. "Just say it, we're weird."

I'm not sure how to answer that. I've forgotten how blunt he is...

I settle for an awkward giggle, but the more I think about it, the funnier it becomes. The giggle turns into genuine laughter, and Miguel looks at me as if I just fell off a flying saucer.

I hurry to wave the matter aside. "Sorry, just laughing at myself."

"Suuuure..."

Snickering, I turn forward and cross my arms behind my head. A few steps later, I catch myself humming the very melody Miguel just played, though with a more positive tune. And the músico goes right ahead and readopts it for his guitar, tongue poking out. He's giving off an aura of quiet bliss which I can't help smiling at. It's so sweet. You'd have to have a heart of stone if you wish to suppress this...

Poor kid.

Ay, he'd totally kill me if I said that out loud! So I resort to thoroughly kneading Dante's hairless hide while listening to my new old amigo's compositions, up until we reach the zapatería _._

I'm not sure what to expect from the compound that the two Riveras lead me into. The wooden gate could totally use a paint job, but there's nothing even remotely unusual about that. Still, one step in and I feel right out of place. Shoe racks to the left, guarding doorways which reveal a workshop with even more shoe racks and a bunch of tools whose names I couldn't _possibly_ dream up. A wooden shed to the right, decorated with about a billion potted plants. Straight ahead, a sealed well. It marks the center of a bustling courtyard opening before us, and the sight is one I absolutely cannot take in at once.

I always kind of assumed that Miguel is the youngest of the Rivera clan. He certainly sighed a lot about being babied. (And I sighed right back. Not trying to make myself look better than I am here – complaining is fun.) Well, there are small twins running around now, swarming the legs of their padres and tíos who are in the middle of preparing a table. I quickly check the time on my cell phone. Could it possibly be noon already? Oof, indeed it is! I knew playing the tourist guide was time-consuming, but I didn't realize it was _that_ much!

Talk about Santa Cecilia being a fun place to be... Oh, shoot! Mamá is going to bite off my head! I should be home for lunch right now, but I'm half an hour away! Where do I get a time machine?!

Before I can fret myself into a full-blown panic, a delighted squeal and a guitar thrust into my hands from right out of nowhere derail that train of thought. Enrique calls a greeting. Miguel is buried in little boys, though he doesn't seem to mind. He laughs and gathers the twins in his arms.

"Hey, careful there! Your primo is no Charizard!"

Dante runs circles around them, obviously enjoying himself, but I can barely do more than gape. My great-great-grandfather's guitar weighing heavily on my arms doesn't exactly help matters, either. Huh... At least now I can sort those two kiddos in relation to Miguel. I do wonder how they know Charizard, though. Both the games and the TV show are package deals, free music attached. Merchandise in a store, maybe? Or have they been binging since last week?

Dios, I'm confused!

But what I am not... Well, that would be invisible. Especially while hugging a gigantic block of dazzlingly white wood, so a whole bunch of people pause in serving outdoor lunch to size me up. I don a smile, shift the weight of the guitar to one arm and wave. I'm not really sure what to do; I don't recognize any of them. Where's Rosa? Could one of them be Abel? I can't spot anyone who looks Danilo's age.

Oh well, I'm good. Right here. Distracted by Miguel and his cousins having a tickle fight in front of my nose, which looks plenty silly and adorable at the same time. Even Enrique laughs before he heads for the table, where he kisses a pregnant woman resting in a chair and starts a conversation I can't hear. (In fact, any snippets of chitchat potentially wafting over are completely drowned out by the three boys. Part of me is thankful for it.)

Hmm... The woman must be Miguel's mamá. I feel sorry for the baby already, sentenced to growing up with a brother twelve years older than him or her. I had to experience firsthand that it's bad enough with a brother who has only _five_ years on you, and as far as Miguel is concerned, he may even turn thirteen before his sibling is born. Not that he's acting the part right now...

I clear my throat. "Miguel?"

Nope, still wrestling his primos. Granted, they sit on him by now, but is some kind of acknowledgment really that much to ask?

"Miguel!"

"Huh?"

"What do you think about introductions?"

"Sounds great, but I'm afraid I'm a little busy. Eww, not you too, boy!"

Dante has taken to licking Miguel's face, providing the young músico with the motivation to finally fend off anyone invading his personal space. One divide-and-conquer tactic later, the twins are all over Dante and Miguel stands. I pat his back to remove the dust, and Miguel himself fixes his hair and jeans.

"¡Gracias, Tavi!"

"De nada, Michacho." Wait...

I blink at my own words, and Miguel looks similarly stunned. Next thing I know, we're both laughing.

As you do. I can't believe this just happened! It's been so long, but that stupid nickname is still rolling off my tongue as if I used it only yesterday!

"Ay, that felt a little too natural, didn't it?"

"¡Qué cosas! You sure you really were my age the last time we saw each other?"

"Not anymore!" Cielos, I can't get that smile off my face! Even though I never really missed Miguel in my life, having him back feels _just so very right!_ And we don't need to hide from Rosa anymore, which makes it even better!

However, Miguel's expression has turned into something more lopsided by now. He plucks his instrument from my arms, the grin on his lips somewhere between playful and sheepish. "Sorry for tossing the guitar at you like this."

"Don't worry about it. It's not exactly your fault, ¿no?" I glance at the twins, who let go of Dante in favor of staring at us in wonder. Good lord, they're adorable! "¡Hola, chavitos!" I smile and bend my knees a little. "I'm Tavia, Miguel's friend!"

Both of them brighten at being talked to directly. "¡Hola, Tabia!" one of them tries. The other sticks with "¡Hola!"

Miguel chortles. "Do you want to tell her your names, too?"

"I'm Benny!" the one who messed up my name cheers.

"I'm Manny!" announces the other, and I know I'm doomed. So far, the only difference I can detect between the two is that Benny wears a red T-shirt and Manny a yellow one. Next time, they'll probably wear other colors.

Oh well, I guess I can worry about that when I know if there'll be a next time at all. There's still the distinct possibility that I'll be chased away with a flying chancla.

Wonderful prospect.

I breathe deeply and relax my shoulders. "Alrighty, Miguel. Ready to take on the incoming flood of names."

"That's the spirit! Come on!"

Humming an upbeat tune, he herds everyone to the table. Dante needs no further encouragement, but the twins run off first chance they get. Nobody cares enough to call them back, but at least we have some leg room now.

Miguel sets course for his mother straight-away. "¡Hola, mamá!" he says, places his guitar in a chair and goes on to give her a careful hug.

"¡Hola, Miguel! How was the plaza? Did you have fun?"

"¡Por supuesto! There even was this tourist family... I don't think they understood a word, but they seemed to like my playing anyway! Isn't it great how music connects the whole world?"

 _For this music is my language..._

I'm rather sure I know the tourists Miguel is talking about. Now I wonder what would have gone differently if it hadn't been for them... I probably would have stomped home after discovering the grave-robbery and hauled my whole family to the closest police station. Where we would have been told that everything is in order, because the guitar never was our (great-)great-grandfather's to begin with. Probably the most awful way possible to learn something like that. As it is now, at least I got some quality time with Miguel out of the deal.

"And the world es mi familia... ¡Épale, Tavi! Your foot-tapping is making me loco!"

¡Huy! I didn't even realize I was tapping out the song in my head. And infected Miguel with it. Who in turn triggered the next melody: "Un poquito loco, by any chance?"

"Un poquito más loco, by a tap dance."

I puff up my cheeks. Wittiness in twelve-year-olds should _totally_ be outlawed. "¡Bah! Cállate, músico."

"Someone can't handle loooo-siiiing!" Miguel chants and proceeds to underline the words with a smirk. And a _tap dance_. Now that's just pure evil!

I cross my arms, frowning, glowering – and struggling to keep the corners of my mouth from twitching upwards. Why is it so utterly _impossible_ to stay mad at this boy?!

I swat at him playfully. "Stop it!"

Miguel is still grinning, but his expression is quickly wiped blank when someone chuckles and we're reminded of our audience. I really don't want to know what my own face looks like right now, but it feels hot enough to be glowing like a traffic light. I seem to have a real knack for ruining first impressions.

"You made a new friend, I see," Miguel's mamá chimes in, smiling at me. Very open, very welcoming. It puts me at ease, and I take a breath to introduce myself properly.

Miguel is faster: "She's actually an old friend, but..." He trails off, uncertain. That's kind of what you get for talking first and thinking second.

"Way to trip over your own tongue there, Miguel," I tease and promptly get to admire said tongue in all its poked-out glory. There's another _¡Cállate!_ in the air because someone can't handle losing, which I studiously ignore and turn to face Miguel's mamá instead. "My name is Octavia Aguayo. I'm from a dancer clan, so things were a little rocky back then. But I'm happy to finally meet Miguel's family!"

"The pleasure is all mine."

"A secret dancer friend, eh?" A huge, meaty hand flops down on Miguel's head and ruffles his hair. It belongs to an equally huge man with an equally huge nose and a balding head. "Isn't that typical for you, sobrino?"

Miguel rolls his eyes and stands next to me, pretending to have a reason for ducking away besides running for the hills. Yup, he's definitely the clan baby.

"Okay, let's get this started. Looks like everyone who's not somewhere else has gathered."

He's right. The people who hung back before are all well within earshot by now. Miguel's mother (Where's Enrique gone to?), the uncle, a woman who appears to be trying for a more fashionable appearance than her family and somehow managed to look more uncanny than Barbie, an elderly man with a walking cane who looks very serious, and even Benny, Manny and Dante are back! And they brought... a stray cat? Another pet? The way it stares at me says it's not here by mistake. It seems more intelligent than it should be, and like it's trying to tell me something along the lines of _Lay one finger on this family, chamaca, and I'll tear you to shreds._

What am I thinking? Guess I'm going crazy; there's no way that cat would be communicating with me.

I turn back at Miguel and smile. He returns it, beaming with excitement. "You already know my papá, right?"

"Enrique."

Miguel nods enthusiastically and starts pointing. "Mamá's name is Luisa." His finger wanders to the Barbie lady. "That's papá's sister, tía Gloria." Next up is the uncle. "And that's his brother, tío Berto. He's also Benny and Manny's father, and Rosa's and Abel's, but I think they're in the kitchen with tía Carmen."

"Their mother?" I venture, and Miguel nods again.

"You'll recognize them," he assures and goes back to pointing. "And that man over there is papá Franco, abuelita's husband. Her name is Elena. And of course, you know Benny, Manny and Dante. ¡Epa! And Pepita is here, too!"

He picks up the cat, who summits his shoulder and licks his hair, then promptly sneezes. Miguel laughs. "Sorry girl, I'm all dust right now. Is everyone doing fine?"

The cat meows in what seems to be confirmation and hops off her perch to rejoin Dante. The dog licks her head, and I feel like I missed something that would explain this strange behavior, of both Miguel and the cat. Something of vital importance.

I shake off the misgivings. Of course I missed something vital. I barely know these people, there must be thousands of vital somethings I missed!

Which brings me back to introductions. "Nice to meet you, everyone!" _I'll try not to mess up your names too badly._

"¡Bienvenido, muchacha!" the Barbie... Carmen? Gloria? Gloria, Gloria. Why do I suck at names so hard?!

Regardless of my confusion, I have to admit that she suddenly looks a lot less uncanny when she smiles. Such a warm family! Is this really the anti-music-clan I've been avoiding my whole life?

I'm afraid it is.

"Why don't you put down your bag?" Luisa offers, causing me to glance around uncertainly. I can't simply occupy someone's chair, right?

"I... uh..."

That's when my cell phone decides that it's been ignored for long enough. I yelp and desperately ransack my satchel. That little nuisance is singing _Remember Me_ for the whole Rivera family to hear, and I'm pretty sure they have zero desire for that!

The display shows the number of my mamá. No surprise there. It also shows three missed calls... She'll be so mad! "Excuse me, gotta accept this! Be right back!"

I rush for the corner between the gate and the workshop, which seems quiet enough but is still in the Riveras' sight. Alright then... Better get this over with.

"¿Mamá?"

"Octavia Ernesta Guadalupe, do you know what time it is?!"

Yup, she's mad. Not last-names-mad, thankfully, but mad. "Um... Lunchtime? ¡Mamá–!"

"Where are you?!"

"Please, mamá! ¡Déjame explicar!" I take a deep breath, buying time to sort my thoughts. "Listen, I'm sorry I forgot the time. I met a friend from school in Mariachi Plaza, and..." A sigh escapes my lungs when I remember why I came here in the first place. "He said something I really didn't like. I'll tell you more when I come home, okay? I'm still looking into it, and it's no talk for the phone, anyway."

For a moment, the line is silent. Then: "Do you know when you'll be home?"

"Give me a second." I wave my phone at the general direction of the Riveras. "¡Oye, Miguel!"

The músico drops the cutlery he's been in the middle of distributing and jogs over. "¿Sí? What is it?"

"It's mamá. I should've been home ages ago. Any idea how long this will take?"

Miguel glances at the table. "If this is about lunch, you're welcome to eat with us. But I don't want to keep you if there's something urgent."

"No, nothing urgent. Thanks."

The rest is cleared up quickly. I tell mamá not to worry about making lunch for me. She sets a new deadline for sunset and reminds me to practice; I suppose her motherly instinct convinced her I'm planning to be here _all day_. Which I certainly _don't_.

I put my phone away. "Sorry for this."

Miguel shakes his head and flashes a smile. "No, it's fine. Family comes first."

"Careful with the words, Michacho. I'm Ernesto de la Cruz's great-great-granddaughter, remember?"

He seems to mull it over. "Family comes first unless it's about harming innocents?"

"I can work with that. The shoe racks will be spared."

It takes a moment to click, then Miguel points at the outdoor shoe rack with mock bewilderment. "Innocent? We're talking about this lineup of deadly weapons, yes?"

I try not to laugh, and fail spectacularly. "I better get used to never having the last word with you, Miguel!"

The little músico's forehead wrinkles, the over-astonishment falling away. "Uh..."

Hmm? Can't handle compliments or what? No, that can't be it. He wasn't thrown off-balance like this by his plaza audience. "What's wrong?"

That snaps him out of it. Miguel perks up and waves his hands. "Oh, I'm sorry! I just space out sometimes!"

"Uh-huh..." With his head up on some guitar-shaped cloud, no doubt. But I'm pretty sure that wasn't it.

I don't press the issue. "So, where can I put my stuff?"

"In the workshop!" Miguel half-shouts and skips through the door frame, finally back to his usual upbeat self. "I'm sure we have... space..." His voice trails off. I use the moment to slip after him into the building, and what I see takes my breath away.

Which is just as well, because the smell of leather and various other things I can't name is overwhelming enough without the shelves stocked to the ceiling with boxes. Soles and the occasional unfinished pair of shoes dangle from basically _everywhere_. A total of _three_ worktables makes up the center of the room, and three more line the walls.

I step further into the workshop, pivoting to take everything in. So many tools! Out of which I can at least identify a sewing machine and an anvil, but _rayos y centellas!_

"¡Aguas! There's a–!"

"Ow!"

"Pillar behind you..."

"Yeah, I just discovered it." I rub the back of my head. This place is only half as fascinating now...

"You're okay?"

I glance at Miguel. He looks a little torn, with one hand on a tabletop and the other reaching for me. I smile reassuringly. "I'm fine. Just keep doing what you do."

He eyes me skeptically, then turns and pushes some things around. "Ta-da! A nice little spot for the lady's handbag!"

"It's not a handbag!" I puff up my cheeks. My mamá has a handbag! It's full of useless stuff, and I refuse to carry around useless stuff! "Besides, do I look like a lady to you?"

"Is that a trick question?"

Yup, I really need to get used to losing word duels with a twelve-year-old. I park my satchel among some hammers and an electric fan, next to a device which looks like bristles on wheels. I walk around the table to inspect it a little closer. Its purpose seems obvious, but you never know with shoemakers.

"This is a polisher?"

"Yup! But you maaaay want to stand somewhere else if you're planning to get out of this workshop without any more headaches."

He's staring at the ceiling above me, and I automatically follow his gaze.

"What's my head to do with– ¡Ay, Santo Dios!" I jump backwards, straight into some other weird contraption. Pain shoots up my spine. I instinctively grab for purchase, only to bump my wrist and end up on the floor anyway, grunting and hissing. "Ow..."

I blink the wooziness away and Miguel comes into view, wincing in sympathy when he spots the crumpled heap that is me.

"I guess I don't need to ask if you're okay?"

"This place is a death trap," I grumble, all the while attempting to sort my limbs into resembling a normal human being. Every part of my body throbs, but what hurts most is the humiliation. I'm Octavia Aguayo, for goodness' sake! Not Grace Lessness! "You should put up a sign. Something like _Shoemakers Only._ "

" _100 Percent Mortality Rate for Dancers_ ," Miguel adds, apparently relieved that I'm still able to dish out sarcasm. He offers me his hand, and I gladly accept the help. But not without a huff of indignation for good measure.

"Just keep rubbing it in, will ya?"

As I'm holding Miguel's hand, I can feel him shaking. Two seconds later, I find out he's been trying to contain his laughter. "You have no idea how accurate that was only ten days ago!"

"Oh, I think I do. It has to do with music and chanclas." I direct my gaze at the ceiling, so I can glare at the cause of my misery. A bunch of shoes are stuck in the wood, and they look none too stable in their position. Like they'd fall down at the drop of a... shoe, I guess.

The very thought hurts.

"Don't you think you should get those down before they bop someone on the head?"

"Nah, they're perfect right there. Besides, we _do_ get them down!" And here comes this mischievous grin again. "Give me a leg-up! You're gonna love this!"

Love? Not too sure about that, but I decide to humor the boy and lace my fingers. "Be so kind and leave my head alone, okay?"

"¡Promesa!"

And he does. Miguel's not heavy, and he's obviously done this before. He plucks the closest shoe from the ceiling and is back on the ground in a matter of seconds. The shoe looks a little damaged, but nothing you couldn't fix. There's literally no reason to leave those shoes hanging up there and waste leather. But Miguel is still smirking and waves me away from the polisher.

"Now watch this!" Tongue poking out, he pushes the shoe against one of the brushes and steps on the pedal switch. The machine springs to life, way too noisily for my tastes, and I'm really starting to wonder if Miguel really _is_ un poco loco. Considering his excitement, I expected something more gripping than polishing a slightly damaged shoe.

"Are you kid–"

That's where Miguel lets go. The shoe takes off like a missile, hits another shoe and bounces off to crash down on the worktable.

"Nailed it!" Miguel cheers and walks around the table to pick up the shoe. Which he proceeds to offer to me. "You wanna try? It's harder than it looks, though."

I glance at the shoe in the Miguel's hand, then at those in the ceiling, and back at his. It's so immature... and yet I can't deny the itching in my fingers. Target practice with a brush wheel? It looks so childish, but so immensely _fun!_

"Alright!" I snatch the shoe and position myself at the polishing machine. "Which one should I aim for?"

"Um... That one!" Miguel points at a fancy gentleman's shoe stuck near a roof beam. "It's really large, and even if you're a centimeter off, your shoe may glance off the beam and still hit. Perfect for beginners!"

I study the ceiling-shoe a little longer, calculating the perfect angle. Then I step on the pedal switch. The force of the bristles trying to rip the shoe from my hands is surprisingly strong, but I love it already. A grin sneaks up my face, showing off the anticipation coursing through my veins. Gotta focus on aiming now!

"Let's do this!"


	3. Family Matters

Had anyone told me that shoes could be so much fun, I would have called them crazy. But I guess a bunch of shoemaker kids would find ways to entertain themselves, especially with the usual Santa Cecilian pastime – music – out of the picture.

Between Miguel's cheering and my reluctance to give up before hitting that darn shoe, I totally forget the time. And I suspect that so does Miguel, because we both wince upon hearing a female voice calling his name.

"Nothing?"

Is that some kind of default setting with him? He's certainly not helping. An elderly woman is standing in the courtyard-door frame, hands on her hips. She stares disapprovingly at Miguel, then at me, and starts walking. I move out of the way, only realizing I dropped the shoe when she picks it up and nonchalantly sends it back into the ceiling.

It would have been funny had she not been so intimidating. Even though she's short and her back hunched forward, I can tell she's not someone I'd like to tangle with.

"Uh..." Miguel emits. "I think I should go sing to mamá Coco. Or pick up some plates from the kitchen..."

I nod eagerly, giving it my all to look like I'm _not_ using the woman's grandson as a shield. "I can totally help you with that! The plates, I mean, since I have no idea who mamá Coco is..."

The woman sighs, her imposing aura dwindling (though not quite disappearing). "You go sit at the table, chamaca. I need a word with our músico here."

I flash Miguel a worried glance, who gives a subtle shrug and mouths _Go!_ , which isn't the most reassuring I've ever seen. But his abuela won't eat him, right?

I can't help feeling guilty as I dodge the Pillar of Doom and leave. Is he going to be chewed out again for getting into a fight? It's not his fault...

But I do as told and join the rest of the clan. It seems like everyone has showed up – the table is set, I spot Rosa and a guy who's doubtlessly Abel, plus a rather heavyset lady (Miguel was right when he said I'd recognize Berto's wife, their shared interest in food is hard to overlook) and a really, _reaaaally_ old woman in a wheelchair. She must be the mysterious mamá Coco, seeing how Miguel hasn't come round mentioning her during introductions.

All of them are waiting. Dang, we pulled a serious traffic obstruction, Miguel and I! There are only three spots open by now – one at the head of the table next to Coco (Socorro maybe?), and two at her other side around the corner.

I slip into the chair furthest from her, next to Luisa. I'm grateful I get to sit with Miguel, but I'm still not sure what to do about the people who haven't met me yet. Should I tell them hello, too? Across the lunch table?

"Ah, I heard we have a guest."

I turn to Berto's wife. She's smiling, and I can't help smiling back. That solves the problem. "Sí, that would be me. Nice to meet you, uh..."

"Carmen," she kindly jogs my memory. "And you are?"

"Tabia!" Benny chimes in, making some of us chuckle.

"Octavia, actually," I explain, feeling stupid for worrying. "Octavia Aguayo."

"Ah, I remember!" Rosa speaks up. "You're that girl who always sang with Miguel, right?"

 _What?!_

I catch myself gaping, close my mouth, and open it again like a fish out of water. "You knew?"

"Oh, please." Rosa rolls her eyes. "The whole school knew. You weren't exactly subtle about it. Actually, I heard one the teachers say she'd sign you both right up for the church choir."

I... I can't even. There are no words! "Why didn't you ever tell us?"

"And scare Miguel even more?"

That makes even less sense. "Why would he have been scared if he knew that the only member of his family who could catch him was on his side?"

"Because the more people know, the more can slip up." She waves dismissively. "It's Miguel-logic. It's not for us mere mortals to question."

"I does make _some_ sense..." I ponder, somewhat baffled by the thought process. Had I known of Rosa being in on the secret, there would have been nothing but relief on my part. "He must be interesting to live with."

"You don't know half of it," Rosa groans and starts playing with her fork. "He's beyond impossible sometimes. And I bet I'm only starving right now because he's ditched my dumb brother!"

She glowers at Abel, who glowers back, making Carmen admonish them. I fail to listen because a drowned rat alias Miguel drops into the chair next to me, cups his chin and starts tapping a rhythm on the table.

"I see you're still alive."

"Just barely." Then, in a quieter voice, he adds, "I'm glad we're having lunch now, or it would've taken forever."

"Miguel!" Luisa chides, causing the cousin pair to snicker. Miguel glares at them, then mumbles an apology that sounds only semi-sincere and returns to tapping.

"So, may I ask what this was all about?" I try to distract him from his sulk. "Rosa said something about ditching Abel."

The guy in question moans across the table. "Give me a break! That kid would win a slipperiness contest against an eel!"

"Isn't he an anguilito?" Rosa supports her brother. I figure I should back Miguel up on the teasing front, but unfortunately, I'm too busy laughing my head off.

Besides, Miguel can fend for himself: "Well, I guess I am full of power," he smirks, flourishing his spoon.

"You're absolutely stunning, corazoncito," Luisa joins in the fun, and I fear I might find myself rolling on the floor very soon. My sides are hurting so bad!

"Mijos, the food is getting cold!" Miguel's abuela reminds us, and I finally manage to pull myself together. The food does look delicious – there are tamales and enfrijoladas, soup and a variety of salsas, fruits and vegetables that keep me from being too disappointed with the lack of chorizos.

I get recommendations from all sides (Carmen makes the best blandas while there's no beating abuelita's tamales, apparently), and I somehow end up with so much on my plate that I consider switching it with Miguel's once he's engrossed in talking to his mamá Coco. She doesn't respond – and I can only marvel at his stamina. I'd never have the patience, but Miguel's enthusiasm seems to know no bounds. So while he rambles on about guitars, luchadores and his current crafts project in school (something about an alebrije version of Dante to guard his candy stash), I try to get acquainted with everyone else. (Top of the list being straightening the names out.)

There's a high demand for the story of how I met Miguel in the first place, which the two of us tell in tandem because it was apparently deemed interesting enough for Coco to hear, too. We even end up singing together. And while singing isn't something I'd consider out of the ordinary, it's hard not to feel that this time is special. Maybe it's because my memories of singing with Miguel have dulled, or maybe it's because there's nothing to keep him from going all out. I enjoy singing, but Miguel... He goes above and beyond. It's resounding in his crystal-clear voice, written across his beaming face, flowing along his tiny yet peppy movements – the true meaning of passion. Singing is best done standing upright, but somehow, Miguel manages to bring out the beauty of chair-swaying.

Aww, man... Two songs in and I'm addicted already. That calls for some comfort pineapple! And Miguel switches from duet to solo, smoothly enough to make me suspect some kind of reflex. I don't think he consciously took notice.

I wonder if he'd notice should I ever feel inclined to slap him with my pineapple slice.

I decide to cut back in at the next song, but we never get that far. As soon as Miguel pauses to take a breath, his abuelita reminds him of his plate. It's like breaking a spell. Everyone has quietened to listen, so now the faces are dedicated to stuffing and chatter is slowly picking up again.

What's more: the eldest family member is back in touch with the world. She's been wearing that serene smile all the time, but now she's actually _there_ to back it up with spirit.

"That was a lovely song. Who's your friend, mijo?"

For a moment there, I forget how to chew. _He just told you!_ I don't know this lady, but it's heartbreaking anyway.

And apparently, Miguel doesn't mind telling her again: "She's a friend from school. Her name is Octavia, and she's a dancer. Just like you, mamá Coco!"

What? "A dancer? But I thought..."

"You thought I was the first one to ignore mamá Imelda?" Miguel chuckles. "Me, too. Turns out I wasn't. In fact, mamá Coco met papá Julio in Mariachi Plaza. They fell in love over their shared passion for dancing."

Wow... Must have been hard for the poor guy to get accustomed to a music-free environment. Not that I'd say that out loud. "So music _does_ run in the family after all."

"I guess so." Miguel looks around the table. "Most of us never tried."

"Well, most of us aren't children anymore," Berto points out. "We have a business that needs running."

"I didn't say it doesn't!"

"Calm down, Miguel!" Enrique cuts in. "We're still getting used to music in our lives."

Miguel huffs and starts crunching down his enfrijoladas. I get that he's frustrated, but Enrique has a point. Unlike Miguel, they've lived for decades believing music was evil. That must be _some_ change!

I shake my head and turn forward to talk to Rosa and Abel. As much as I like Miguel, I have no intentions of gluing myself to him. "Sooo... You're planning to take up any instruments?"

"I don't know," Rosa answers, eying her father uncertainly. "Maybe."

"I'd love to play the accordion." Abel's turn. "But I'm sure I'm not as good as primo wonder-eel."

"I'l sho yu wonda-eel!" Miguel complains. It might have sounded marginally more threatening if he didn't do it through a mouthful of tortilla.

Rosa makes sure to let him know: "Oh, really? How? You gonna _spit_ some at him?"

"Eww!" Good thing there's no eel on the table... I glance at Elena, half-expecting her to say something, but she's busy talking to Coco. It hits me that they must be mother and daughter, and my heart clenches.

I'm so glad my bisabuelito hasn't fallen victim to Alzheimer's or anything. He's still fit as a fiddle.

Coco must have noticed me staring, because she turns and smiles. "What's wrong, chamaca?"

"Nothing." I catch myself driving my nails into the table and hurry to grab a fork to busy my hands with. "I was just thinking about my own great-grandfather. His name's Fabio. He loves dancing, too. You might have come across him once. He loved the spotlight."

Miguel chokes and coughs so hard that it sounds like he's trying to dislodge his lungs. I don't know who asks first if he's okay. Not me, anyway. I'm like... the fourth or something.

Miguel only waves dismissively. "Don't mind me. Just keep talking."

"As if I could. Not after that." I eye Miguel skeptically. Again, I can't get rid of the feeling he knows something that I don't, but _should_. "What the heck are you up to?"

"Nothing." He grabs an orange and starts peeling it absentmindedly. "I don't think they've met. Your papá Fabio must be a whole lot younger than mamá Coco."

"He's 79."

"Wow. That's twenty years."

Twenty?! I can barely believe my ears. Only stare at Coco in amazement. "You're 99?"

"Rude!" Rosa pipes across the table, and if Elena's mouth is anything to go by, I'd say she agrees and is halfway into a tirade. But Coco only smiles.

"It's okay, mija."

I shake my head. "I apologize anyway. I shouldn't have stared."

She keeps smiling. Dang, if Coco isn't _one_ gentle soul, I don't know who is! "You and Miguel sing beautifully together. It reminds me of mamá and papá."

"Really?!" Miguel eagerly leans forward. "Can you tell us another story of mamá Imelda and papá Héctor?"

"Miguel!" Luisa cuts in. "Give your mamá Coco some space!"

"Sorry!" Miguel jerks back and returns to peeling. "Would you like some orange, mamá Coco?"

"Thank you, mijo."

Miguel hands out orange pieces to everyone within arm's reach, and I chew contently on mine while Coco spins a wondrous tale of dancing, the sound of a guitar, of voices joined in song and one small, happy family.

* * *

When I chat it up with the rest, I find out that Abel remembers Danilo only vaguely, but better than the rest of his class. I'm not surprised – my brother tends to stick out with his more Spanish-y white complexion. It's always a hassle to convince new acquaintances that we are, in fact, related. Even Abel refuses to believe it for a minute.

Rosa wants to know everything about dancing, and I promise to show her something later. I need to practice anyway, but convincing Miguel to provide background music is harder than I thought – even though he seems desperate to say yes, somehow he shies away from actually working with someone.

"What if I mess up?" he asks, fiddling with a banana leaf. "I've never really done this before. Not without help. I mean, I can try playing something we both know, but you've probably done it a thousand times before and... I don't know."

I curl my lips. _Perfectionists._ "Miguel, doing something you've done a thousand times before is kind of the point of practice. Besides, a good chunk of the dance moves I know are meant to be danced to an unknown melody, so long as the rhythm is true. And I've heard enough of your music to know that you can do this. And so what if you mess up a note? It's not like there's anything at stake here. We'll just start again." I grin and poke his shoulder. "Besides, I still owe you half a performance, right?"

A tentative smile grows on Miguel's face. "Yeah, right. It's not like _I'm_ the one with the guitar or anything."

"Whoops! Busted!"

That earns me a laugh and an elbow to the ribs. "You're impossible."

"Not just me, amigo! Not just me!"

With that out of the way, Miguel dedicates himself to his tamales again. "Where _is_ my guitar, anyway?"

"I put it into the common room," Berto speaks up. "Since you kids were busy tearing the workshop apart."

I share a look with Miguel and shrug. I guess we were.

It's not long after that everyone finishes eating. The table is cleared and Miguel is sentenced to dishwashing for the crime of marching off to Mariachi Plaza without Abel. Elena helps him, and I somehow get myself roped into it, too. I don't mind wielding the dishtowel too much, considering that it gives me a moment alone with those two, but it doesn't make the whole situation any less odd. Elena stoically scrubs pots while Miguel seems torn between saying something and drowning himself in the soap water.

Until he decides on the former: "What's the matter, abuelita?"

Elena pauses, then her expression softens and she returns to scrubbing with something akin to resignation. "It's nothing, mijo."

It's really not. Miguel works a little too roughly on the plate but, to his credit, he doesn't push for an answer.

Personally, I have my suspicions. Without trying to make myself more important than I am... It's gotta be me. If I'm not mistaken, Elena grew up with Miguel's great-great-grandmother, the one who established the music ban in the first place. If that doesn't influence her view of accepting a dancer in their midst, I don't know what does.

I put my dried cup into the cupboard, toss the dishtowel on a table and give Miguel's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. His head whips around and I smile, happy that I managed to chase away the tension for a moment. "I need to visit the bathroom. Tell me the way?"

"Uh..." He points a bubbly finger. "Right behind the workshop, near the tree."

"Thanks!"

I don't know if Miguel grasped my actual intentions. I'm about to sweep out the door and leave the two to themselves, but then Elena sighs. "It's okay, chamaca. You should hear this, too."

Well then, Elena definitely saw through the lie. I pick up the towel again and Miguel hands me a freshly cleaned plate, but I doubt that any of our minds are on the dishes. There's another story to be had! Though I'm pretty sure I won't like this one... The suspense is killing me!

"I never knew how much mamá loved dancing. The only time I remember her dancing, she nearly broke her foot from falling down the well. She couldn't walk for days."

I share a look with Miguel. He clearly didn't know that. He looks shocked, maybe even somewhat ill. I understand where he's coming from, but I'm not exactly surprised. Injuries happen when you don't know what you're doing. Heck, injuries happen even when you do!

I stare at the plate in my hands, searching for words. "That must have been traumatizing. You're told that music is bad, and then you get it confirmed like that... I can't claim to understand what it must have felt like, but accidents aren't something you can prevent by banning certain things." I shake my head to unglue my eyes from the plate and wave my dishtowel as beseechingly as you can possibly wave a dishtowel. "Wanna know the last place I got hurt? Your workshop. I got startled and hopped backwards into your... whatever it is."

"A sanding machine," Miguel supplies, making me huff at my own stupidity. Could have thought of that.

"Whatever. Point is, it's a matter of experience. If I tried my hand at shoemaking, I'd probably poke holes into it with those pick-thingies."

"Awls."

"I'm not going to memorize that."

"Come on, it's not a hard word!"

"Yeah, like polka."

"What?"

I tilt my head and open my arms in an I-rest-my-case gesture. "It's a dance and music genre from... I think it was the Czech Republic? It was brought to México by Germans and is now a staple of Norteña, if you want the short version. It's actually much more interesting than that."

Judging from Miguel's expression, he's in sponge mode. I'll totally be explaining the long version later, and he'll soak it up like there's no tomorrow. Sin duda.

Ay, what did I get myself into? As if having lunch with the Rivera clan wasn't enough for a day.

"That reminds me... I promised Rosa to show her some steps, but..." I glance at Elena uncertainly. I can't quite read her face. Disapproval? Anyway, I have a pretty good idea by now whom Miguel got his death glare from. "I'd understand if you don't want me to."

"Very well," she says, and her face shows what may or may not be the beginning of a smile, before turning deadly serious again. She jabs a finger at me. "But if I see one bruise on my granddaughter...!"

"I'll be chancla'd into next week. Got it!"

* * *

After a successful dishwashing session, I can't ignore any longer why I'm here. When Miguel goes to get his guitar, I stop him and pull him into the shadow of what I dubbed 'the Rivera tree.'

"What's wrong?"

"You know what's wrong."

Miguel's brows knit. Dang! Stupid, stupid!

I close my eyes and sigh. "Lo siento, that came out more aggressive than I meant it to." I place my hands on my hips and look squarely into Miguel's eyes. Cielos, he's so short! "Listen, I believe you. Something turned your familia's attitude towards music upside down. That's nothing to take lightly. But you accused my great-great-grandfather of murder. And fraud. Not to mention after I nearly tumbled into his grave because the guitar and a lock are missing. I'm sure you can understand that I find it hard to accept all this."

Miguel nods solemnly, hands deep in his pockets. "You wouldn't believe how well I do." He jerks a thump over his shoulder. "This way."

He turns on his heel and stalks off. I follow him, feeling sick to my stomach. There was something in his eyes... I can't put my finger on it, but it was icky and didn't belong there.

I massage my temples. What's wrong with him? I bet it somehow relates to the near-scuffle, too. Maybe I should try that one?

I should. I take a deep breath, trying to keep my voice even: "You screamed."

"Huh?"

"You screamed," I repeat firmly. "I guess I shouldn't be asking, but... Why? You said it was my eyes, but we never fought before."

Miguel spins around to face me, but he doesn't stop walking. "I don't want to talk about it. Ask me again when I can be sure that neither of us is going to do something stupid afterwards."

I'm not planning to do something stupid at any given time, but I can't find it in myself to feel offended. "How will I be able to tell?"

Miguel shrugs. "I don't know."

That does it! No twelve-year-old is supposed to talk like that! Before I can change my mind, I grab Miguel's wrist and pull him into my arms. It's kind of awkward because _he's just that small_ , but it's also kind of... nice.

"Um, Tavi?" Miguel pipes up, his voice a little muffled by the jeans of my bib shorts. "What exactly made you do that?"

That's more like it! "I don't know." I let go of him and smile encouragingly. "But you looked like you desperately needed a hug."

Arms crossed, Miguel curls his lips and huffs through the nose. He doesn't deny it, though. "Let's get that VIP before someone else mistakes me for a teddy bear."

"What? VIP?"

"The Very Important Photo."

"Ouch! That almost hurts physically!"

"Complaints may be submitted to _Rosa Rivera English Pun Enterprises_."

"You're impossible." I shake my head. "So, a photo, huh?"

"Of papá Héctor, mamá Imelda and mamá Coco. Papá Héctor's guitar is in it, too."

" _That_ guitar, I assume."

A photo... Part of me hopes it's fake, or a sort of souvenir photo. Like people taking selfies with cardboard cutouts. What if this whole thing is just a big misunderstanding? That's possible, right? But a fake wouldn't be enough to convince the rest of the clan to allow music. Or would it?

While my thoughts are drawing useless circles, Miguel pushes at a door without a handle. It reveals a scarcely furnished room with two people in it.

"¡Hola, mamá Coco! Hey, Rosa! What are you doing here?"

"Replacing a certain _someone_ who should be looking after mamá Coco."

"Sorry..."

Rosa sighs and fixes her alice band (which looks as perfect as it could get). As she passes Miguel, she places a hand on his shoulder and whispers, "I don't know how you do it." Then she hustles outside, and maybe I'm imagining things, but I'm 60 percent sure I heard her sniff. Miguel seems rather taken aback as well, and we silently agree to pretend we didn't hear that.

Moving on.

Miguel presses a kiss to his mamá Coco's cheek. "¡Hola, mamá Coco!" he repeats, a bright smile on his face.

"Papá," she responds, smiling herself. And yet something is very unsettling about the way she looks at Miguel. "¡Papá! You're home!"

Miguel's shoulders sag. I can almost hear the shattering sound of his heart.

Of both our hearts. I can only cover my mouth and watch in petrified horror as Miguel hugs his mamá and speaks to her in a soothing voice: "Yes, mamá Coco. Papá is home, and he loves you very much. He's really looking forward to seeing his wonderful girl again."

"Papá is home?"

"Yes, mamá Coco."

"Such a sweet little boy." She reaches out with a gnarled old hand and caresses Miguel's cheek. I feel like an intruder, but I'm spellbound. I can't look away.

I'm on the verge of crying. Miguel looks close to breaking down, too. He squeezes the hand stroking him and gently disengages. "Thank you, mamá Coco."

When he turns, his smile has only grown. I force the corners of my mouth to match his, and it makes me feel a little better.

"I know this is useless to say," Miguel begins, "but it's okay."

Now I understand what Rosa meant. "How do you keep it together?"

Miguel sighs. If I didn't know better, I'd say he looks _ashamed_. "I don't know. Practice, I guess. It's not always like this." He sends a glum look at his mamá Coco and wipes the unshed tears from his eyes. "Can you look after her for a minute? I want to go get my guitar."

"Sure."

"Gracias, Tavi. Yell if something happens."

"You bet I will."

And then he's gone. Unsure what to do, I walk over to the bed next to Coco's wheelchair. When I'm about to sit, something on a table across the room catches my eye. It's a picture frame, which I pick up before sitting down for real. It must be the photo Miguel has been talking about, because it shows a family. At some point, a corner had been ripped off – it's been patched up with tape.

The woman in the photo is breathtakingly beautiful. Miguel kept calling her Imelda, right? She looks sternly into the camera, her daughter in her lap. The father... Héctor... Well, I can see how Coco would mistake Miguel for him. They're both gangly, with impossibly large ears and feet. And isn't that Miguel's hairline, even?

The man is leaning on a guitar I know all too well. There are no two ways about it – it's the same guitar Miguel is off fetching right now. And it's no souvenir, either. Even disregarding the fact that the picture must have been taken at some point during the aftermath of the revolution, the woman wouldn't wear an expression like this if it was meant to be some silly tourist photo.

So that part of Miguel's story is definitely true. The other one...

 _At least I didn't murder anyone!_

I drop the frame onto the blanket and kick off my shoes. I place my feet on the edge of the bed and bury my face in my knees. I don't want to see anyone.

There's the blood of a murderer running through my veins. The one who took the life of this sweet woman's father.

"Someone tell me I'm reading too much into this." I barely recognize my own voice. I can't remember ever being so hoarse. "Someone tell me I'm reading too much into this."

"What's wrong, niña?"

My head is so heavy. I stare at Coco, her serene expression, then hide behind my legs again. It's no good.

"I'm the tataranieta of the person who tore your family apart."

The next time I look up, the vacant smile is back.

I can't take it anymore. I feel so ill I can barely breathe. I don't care about keeping my act together anymore. I let the tears run, and the stress overtake my senses. The world can go to hell for all I care.

At some point, the mattress drops away from under me and a pair of arms wraps around my shoulders. I don't need to be in full control to realize what's going on. My arms find that narrow waist on their own, and my forehead the warm crook of a neck.

I never should have gone to Mariachi Plaza. I should have gone home and straight to bed.

"Damn you, Miguel Rivera." Dios, I'm tired. "Damn you, músico..."


End file.
